


beyond the darkening horizon (there is hope)

by capcarter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Guilt, Minor Character Death, Post 3x07, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, blame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6540496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capcarter/pseuds/capcarter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa breathes, deep and heavy. Clarke steadies her, a hand on her waist. </p>
<p>"Where do we go from here?" She asks, blue eyes glinting in the moonlight. </p>
<p>Lexa finds she cannot offer an adequate answer. </p>
<p>"I do not know," she returns, turning her gaze from Clarke's piercing stare, "I just know that we cannot continue to live like this."</p>
<p>"We'll figure something out," Clarke whispers against the shell of her ear. Lexa shifts, allowing her forehead to drop against Clarke's own, afraid to break the simplicity of the moment. </p>
<p>She knows tomorrow brings blood and death, as has nearly every other day she has lived on this Earth, but she will fight for every millisecond of hope and love they can find within each other. Of that she has no doubt. </p>
<p>Tomorrow may bring no certainty, but tonight...tonight there is them. And for that simple reason, it's enough. </p>
<p>(Or, The Grounder world splinters, sprouting civil war. Pike's control over Arkadia tightens and the City of Light looms, deadly, on the horizon. Clarke must wrestle with death and war to bring peace to the ground, all the while learning what it's like to love someone who's lost everything).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Any long passages in italics are flashbacks.
> 
> Any dialogue in English italicized is Trigedasleng that I don't know how to translate properly so I just left it. 
> 
> Trigedasleng:  
> Chon yu bilaik? - Who are you?  
> Natblida - Nightblood  
> Em pleni - Enough  
> Mochof - Thank you  
> Nomon - Mother  
> Sha - Yes  
> Fleimkepa - Flamekeeper  
> Ste yuj - Be strong

Lexa opens her eyes to a searing pain unlike anything she’s ever felt in all of her life.

Her vision is a little hazy, red around the edges, the crust of dried tears caking the lids of her eyes. Her entire body aches, like she’s been ripped in two and tried to be sewn back together; her torso hurts like she’s been run through with a sword, or worse (and she _had_ been run through with a sword before). She tries to breathe deeply to assuage the prickling of pain in her lungs. She only ends up sputtering on her own saliva, choking against the rawness of her throat. Her arms twitch with the effort.

“Lexa!” Clarke’s voice is so loud, so emotional. Suddenly she’s there, hovering over her body with her face tear stained and blotchy, her hair falling in curtains around her beautiful face. (Lexa’s never felt so blessed to open her eyes before). She feels Clarke take her hand, soft fingers brushing gently over her knuckles.

“Clarke,” she finally manages to choke out. It sounds low and rough, full of strain, but Clarke’s face beams down at her, a strange mixture between a laugh and a sob bubbling up from her lips, and Lexa forgets what pain even is against the vibrance of Clarke’s eyes.

“You’re okay,” she says, heaving in a stuttering, shaky breath, “You’re okay.” Lexa blinks, trying to push the fatigue and the haze out of her head. She pushes up against the pillows behind her head, grunting with the effort, but Clarke tightens her hold on Lexa’s hand.

“Don’t try to move,” she speaks through tear-filled, relieved eyes, “You need time to heal.” Lexa lets out another cough, trying desperately to remember what had transpired before she opened her eyes to injury and beauty.

She sees memories dance across the backs of her eyelids in a sudden, vivid flash of clarity; can feel the ghost of Clarke’s touch, the softness of her hips as they tangled together on Lexa’s bed, the sun in her eyes as they kissed away the rest of the world, desperate and insistent. She can feel her own happiness, the swell in her chest at the gentleness of their love making, the smile gracing Clarke’s lips as they lay together, wrapped in each other’s arms; the feeling of giving herself utterly and completely to Clarke, and have something monumental given in return. She remembers it all in flashing colors.

And then she remembers the gunshots. The Sky boy staring wordlessly behind Clarke, the bullet in her stomach, the flow of blood against her hands as she collapsed to the ground. She remembers Titus’ distraught face, the gun clattering to the ground from his hands as Clarke’s pleas to not give up ring in her ears as she struggles to breathe. She remembers uttering _ai gonplei ste odon_ ; she remembers Clarke’s broken voice howling _I want_ you, _I will fix you, you’ll be okay_ ; she remembers not believing those rushed words of comfort. She remembers feeling death approaching, quick and painful, but she remembers looking into the vastness of Clarke’s affection and thinking that going right now, filled to the brim with the knowledge of Clarke’s feelings…that would be alright. She remembers the soft, gentle, tearful press of Clarke’s lips against hers as she whispers _may we meet again_ , as Lexa tells her she was right – life _is_ about more than just surviving. And then, blackness. Until a few moments ago, opening her eyes to the sight of Clarke.

“What happened?” She croaks out, even though she knows.

“You got shot,” Clarke says, threading her fingers through Lexa’s, squeezing in reassurance. Her free hand comes up to rest on her shoulder, fingertips brushing against sweaty skin.

“It was touch and go for a long time,” she continues, a fresh wave of tears welling in her blue eyes as she speaks, “But I managed to get the bullet out and stop the bleeding as best as I could.” Clarke swallows thickly before continuing.

“We thought you were dead.” Lexa blinks rapidly as Clarke’s shoulders deflate, “ _I_ thought you were dead. Titus was about to cut you open but I wouldn’t let him.”

_“Move aside, Clarke,” Titus says as soon as Clarke closes Lexa’s eyes, low and gruff as he elbows her in the side, brandishing a scalpel, the blackness of Lexa’s blood glistening on the baldness of his head._

_“No!” She shouts, tears falling against her cheeks as he attempts to take her in his arms, to bring her away from Lexa’s lifeless body, “No!”_

_“Clarke, please,” Titus pleads, his voice wet with emotion; “She is gone. Let her spirit be freed. Let me do my duty. Please.” Clarke shakes her head, but allows Titus to extract her from Lexa’s side anyway, putting her trembling body a safe distance behind him before advancing on Lexa’s corpse._

_He flips her over like she weighs nothing, like she_ is _nothing anymore; no longer important, like she wasn’t_ Heda _, like she wasn’t the woman Clarke loved, tough and headstrong and brilliant and kind, like she wasn’t the great unifier of twelve constantly warring clans, like she wasn’t a person who was living and laughing and happy mere hours ago. He flips her over like she’s disposable, and it makes Clarke sick to her stomach._

_“What are you doing? What are you doing? Stop,” she says, panic in her voice. She wants Lexa’s body intact, whole, so she can put her to rest and give her the send off she deserves. She doesn’t know what he’s doing, she doesn’t know and she wants to scream._

_Titus doesn’t respond, favors ignoring her, and Clarke knows how much he dislikes her, how much he disapproved of their relationship. She hates him._

_“Hey, it’s okay, let him do what he needs to do. There’s nothing you can do now. You have to let him handle it. Let’s go somewhere else. You don’t need to see this.” She feels Murphy’s hands on her shoulders, trying to pull her away from the scene, but she can’t look away, she can’t leave, and Murphy has no right to think he knows anything about the way that she feels, like he has any right to show her kindness after all the things he’s done (Maybe she’s being a bit hypocritical; after all, what has Murphy done that she hasn’t done herself? Who’s to say he doesn’t feel the same self-hatred coursing through his system that she does)?_

_“C’mon, Clarke,” Murphy tries again, his voice soft and imploring, his fingers curling around her collarbone._

_“_ Don’t _touch me,” she says, throwing his hands off of her shoulders, rushing forward and knocking Titus out of the way just as he slices into the skin on Lexa’s neck, right in the middle of her infinity tattoo._

_“Clarke!” He yells, stumbling to the side as Clarke presses her fingers against the sluggish flow of blood from her neck wound, rubs gently as she hooks her arms around Lexa’s middle and turns her over gently. She won’t let him desecrate her memory. She just died. Clarke will protect her._

_She drapes her body over Lexa’s, staring him down through tear stained eyes._

_“Get out of the way,_ Wanheda _,” he seethes, anger in his gaze now, fiery with unrestrained hatred, “The next Commander must be chosen. There are rituals you do not understand.”_

_She tightens her grip on Lexa, ignores the pleading and the pity in Murphy’s dark eyes._

_“No.” Titus groans in exasperation._

_“Do not make me forcibly remove you. I promised_ Heda _I would not harm you. I do not want to break that promise to her. Do not make me break that promise,_ Wanheda.” _He takes a warning step forward, scalpel still clutched in his palm, stained with Lexa’s night colored blood._

_“Hey, come on,” Murphy says, darting forward to put himself between Clarke and Titus, “Give her a fucking minute.”_

_“You do_ not _get to tell me_ anything _, you worthless piece of_ Skaikru _trash!” Titus roars, the veins in his forehead and neck bulging with the effort. Murphy stands his ground, hands clenching into fists, rolling his eyes in fresh annoyance._

_Clarke buries her face in Lexa’s chest, trying to block out the horror around her, to return to before all of this happened, when she and Lexa had trouble physically separating until Clarke dragged herself away, Lexa’s fingers only slipping from her grasp when she’d left the room entirely, disappearing around the frame of the door, heart filled to the brim with simultaneous  hope and sadness._

_“I have vowed not to harm_ Wanheda _, but I have no qualms about harming you,” Titus growls through gritted teeth._

_“Yeah, yeah, old man. We’ve already been through that like a thousand times. Get a new calling card, I’m getting tired of that one,” Murphy says, voice laced with sarcastic nonchalance. Clarke knows that Titus is losing his patience, but she wants to stay here with Lexa forever, until it’s time for her to join her._

_She truly is_ Wanheda _. Commander of Death. Everything and everyone she touches meets a gruesome fate. She should have stayed out in the woods. She should have never ventured back into civilization. She should never have slept with Niylah and let her guard down long enough for Roan to capture her. She should have never done any of that. Maybe if she hadn’t, Lexa would still be alive. She hates herself, even more now than she did after Mount Weather, if such a feat was even possible. She nudges her head farther into Lexa’s chest when she hears it._

_Lub-dub._

_A long, strained pause. A moment where she thinks she’s imagined it. Until she hears it again. Louder, more sure._

_Lub-dub._

_Clarke shoots up like a rocket from her prone position over Lexa’s body, Murphy and Titus moments away from coming to blows when she screams out._

_“She’s alive!” Both of them stop their yelling, turning to face her._

_“What?” Titus asks, voice hollow and raw._

_“I can hear her heart, it’s still beating! Barely, but it’s there!” Clarke’s hands fly over Lexa’s frame, pressing against the wound._

_“I knew you wouldn’t give up on me, Lexa,” she whispers through her tears, “Fight for me, Lexa, come back to me.” She presses another kiss to Lexa’s lips before she springs into action._

_“Murphy! Go find a healer down in the marketplace. Get me bandages and a needle and a very thin tube. Get me everything they have. Go, now!” She shouts at him._

_“You got it, boss,” he says, mock saluting her before he throws the doors open. She can hear his running footsteps disappearing down the hallway._

_“Titus, find the_ natblidas _. Do it now.” Titus nods wordlessly at her, scalpel dropping from his hands and clattering to the ground in his rush to follow her orders._

_Clarke keeps her hands pressed against Lexa’s abdomen._

_“I’m going to fix you, Lexa. I’m going to fix you. Don’t let go just yet,” she pleads, “Don’t let go.”_

“That’s when I heard your heart beating. And I didn’t stop until I could hear you breathing again. I didn’t stop until I could actually feel your pulse beneath my fingers. I didn’t stop until I thought you’d make it out the other side.” Clarke blinks back tears, her grip on her hand tightening. Lexa’s lips curl up into a barely there smile. 

“You saved me.”

Clarke smiles, eyes wet with fresh tears, “I did.” That’s when Lexa finally takes in her surroundings beyond Clarke, only she’s met with unfamiliar designs. She furrows her brow. She doesn’t think she’s ever been here before. The thought doesn’t frighten her; only makes her curious.

A loud voice interrupts her moment.

“Did a perimeter check like you asked. Still didn’t see any of our Grounder pals or that stupid bald dude so I think it’s finally safe to say we made it out without anybody noticing.” The voice stops abruptly, and Lexa squints slightly against the barrage of sound but manages to make out the scarred face of the Sky boy she’d seen in the room behind Clarke when she’d gotten shot.

“Oh, shit,” he exclaims, his voice only rising in volume, much to Lexa’s discomfort, “She’s awake!” He shuffles on his feet, looking between her and Clarke rather awkwardly.

“She okay?” Clarke nods.

“I think so.” The boy nods, his eyes darting around the room, settling on nothing for too long.

“Well I’ll give you two some privacy. Me and the kid’ll keep a look out for any Grounders or something, I don’t know.”

“Thanks, Murphy.” Ah. Murphy is his name. The Sky boy nods, waving his hand in Clarke’s general direction.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Thank me when we’re all not dead and somewhere else.” Clarke chuckles softly as he makes his exit.

Lexa’s throat feels dry and unsteady. And she’s beyond confused. 

“Where are we?” She asks, “We are not in Polis, are we?” Clarke looks away from her eyes, turning her gaze instead to their joined hands, watching her thumb trace shapes against Lexa’s bruised knuckles.

“Not exactly.”

“Then where?”

_Titus makes it back first._

_“_ Heda!” _Aden shouts, running to her side, tears in his eyes. His fellow Nightbloods follow suit, coming to stand around their fallen leader in wide-eyed shock._

_Aden looks up at her, “What happened?” Clarke can’t help the way he reminds her of Lexa, steel to his words and fire in his eyes._

_“She was shot accidentally.” Clarke steadily avoids looking over at Titus. She still wants to kill him._

_“By who?” Another Nightblood speaks up, twisting her hands together across her stomach._

_Clarke sighs. “Titus.” The Nightbloods whirl on him._

_“What?!” They start shouting things in Trigedasleng, but they’re too fast and slurred and they’re all talking over each other and Clarke only really cares about Lexa right now, so she doesn’t catch what they’re saying, but if the look on Titus’ face means anything, it’s probably nothing good. Clarke feels a strange sense of pride in their loyalty and compassion to their leader._

_“_ Em pleni!” _Titus roars, and the Nightbloods calm eerily fast._

_“_ Wanheda _has asked you here. Enough with this madness. Your_ Heda _requires your help. Do your duty.” Aden is the first to nod._

_“_ Sha, Fleimkepa _.” Clarke leans her head against Lexa’s chest again, desperate to hear her heartbeat again, afraid she won’t feel its tentative thumps against her ear._

_She doesn’t._

_“No,” Clarke whispers, “No, no, Lexa, no, wake up, don’t do this!” She shakes at her lover’s shoulders, presses against the wound, tries to hear into her bones._

_“Is she gone?” Titus asks, stooping to pick up his fallen scalpel. The Nightbloods stand still, unsure of where they should go, what they should say. But they all stare at their_ Heda _with the same mask of horror and pain._

_“I don’t know; I can’t hear her heartbeat anymore!” She shouts, frantic. Titus moves to her side again._

_“You’ve done all you can,_ Wanheda,” _He says, soft this time, a hand on her shoulder, “Lexa would wish for you to let her go. Find her peace. She is gone, Clarke. Release her.”_

_And Clarke looks at Lexa’s face, frozen in pain, and she gives in. She does not want her to suffer. If this, if releasing her spirit will bring this woman the peace she needs  to find greener pastures, then how could she deny her that? How could she not do everything to make sure Lexa is taken care of? That she’s safe?_

_She nods._

_“Okay.” Titus purses his lips, and brushes her out of the way. He turns Lexa to her side and pries apart the opening on the back of her neck that he’d made before, re-cutting open the incision. He reaches in, and pulls something out._

_It’s fairly large and glowing blue, tentacle like arms snaking out from inside Lexa’s head. It’s gruesome. Titus lets Lexa’s body fall gingerly back onto the bed. The Nightbloods stare in shock._

_Clarke moves immediately back to Lexa’s side, placing her head on her chest again, taking comfort in her dead lover’s presence._

_“What is that?” She whispers, and she strains to hear Lexa’s heartbeat, even though she knows she won’t._

_“The Commander’s spirit,” Titus says reverently, placing it into a small compartment adorned with the drawing of a skull._

_“_ Natblidas,” _he addresses Lexa’s novitiates, “It is time to prepare for the Conclave._ Heda’s _body will be ready for your purification rituals in a few hours. Go. Get ready. Say your goodbyes. It is time.” The Nightbloods look at each other in apprehension, eyes darting between Clarke, Titus, and their Commander’s body._

_That’s when Clarke hears it again. A faint stutter of movement in Lexa’s chest._

_“Wait! She’s alive,” She shouts again, “Titus, she’s still alive!” Titus shakes his head, moving towards the door._

_“It is over,_ Wanheda. _She is no longer_ Heda. _Her body was a vessel. She must die now, no matter if she is still alive by your standards.” He reaches the door, exiting into the hallway, his eyes dark and lifeless._

_“You must let her die now, Clarke. You must.” Clarke shakes her head._

_“You were willing to help me save her five minutes ago!” Titus nods._

_“But now she is not_ Heda _. I must pledge my duty to another._ Natblidas, _please.  Your trials await.” And with that he’s gone, sweeping down the hallway. The Nightbloods shift on their feet uncertainly._

_“But_ Heda _is not dead,” a young boy with a mop of jet black hair says, face scrunched in painful confusion, “She is alive. She needs us.” Aden nods, squaring his shoulders resolutely._

_“Go. I will stay. I will be whatever_ Heda _needs from me.” Clarke gapes. He truly is strikingly like Lexa._

_The others nod, although they’re still apprehensive at best._

_“Please,” Aden says, “Go.” They finally move, reluctantly._

_“Good luck,” they whisper to him before they file out of the room, each laying a hand on Lexa’s shin before doing so, giving her a reverent bow._

_“They need you at the Conclave,” Clarke murmurs, never taking her hand off of Lexa’s still bleeding wound, “Lexa would want you to fight for that Commander position.” Aden shrugs off her concern._

_“_ Heda _needs me,” he says simply._

_Clarke hears the approach of running footsteps, heavy and loud. She jumps to her feet when Murphy enters, several women behind him, clutching a basket full of supplies._

_“Got it,” he wheezes, breathing heavily as he bends to rest against his knees. Clarke runs forward, taking the basket from him and beckoning the healers to come to Lexa’s side._

_She explains the situation._

_“If we can get the bullet out, stitch her up, and get some more blood into her, we might be able to save her,” Clarke finishes. The three women nod, and Clarke gets to work. She barks orders, handing out supplies, and she realizes how much she sounds like her mother._

_She suddenly aches for Abby, wishes she was here. Lexa might have a better chance at survival if Abby was around, a real doctor, not whatever mediocre training Clarke gained from watching her work for years. But this is all there is. And she must be strong for her Commander._

_One of the women gets the bullet out with the help of Clarke’s guidance._

_“We do not think there is much internal damage,” she says, accent harsh, like she isn’t familiar with the use of English._

_“But she lost much fluids,” the other pipes up, wiping away blood as she prepares to stitch the wound. Clarke nods._

_“That’s what Aden is here for.” She nods to him, and he steps forward._

_“Give me your arm.” He obliges, offering up his hand for Clarke to take. She pushes the sleeve of his tunic up to his shoulder, feels around for a vein in the middle of his arm. She’s never done something like this before. She can only hope it will work. It has to work._

_She pulls out the hollow needle Murphy had supplied her, and she uncurls the crude tube. She inserts part of it into Lexa’s arm and other into Aden’s and watches slowly as black blood begins to move between their now connected limbs. Clarke breathes a heavy sigh of relief after a few moments of bated breath, when it appears that Lexa’s body is not rejecting the transfusion._

_One of the women gazes up at Clarke. “All finished,” she says, and Clarke inspects the intricate stitching. She should have given the Grounder healers more credit. After all, they_ do _live down here. She’s sure they’ve dealt with more than enough issues, more than Clarke at least. She shouldn’t have ever doubted their abilities._

_The other woman pulls out a salve, rubbing it against Lexa’s skin._

_“We are not accustomed to gun wounds,” she murmurs, “But we hope this will help.” Clarke nods._

_“_ Mochof _,” she says, as sincerely as she can through the hoarseness of her throat._

_“_ Ai laik _Albe,” she offers, before gesturing to the other two women, “This is Hope and Ghany.”_

_“Clarke,” she returns._

_Albe smiles, “Yes, we are aware of you._ Klark kom Skaikru, _legendary Mountain slayer. We owe you a great debt. And_ Heda _seems to respect you greatly.” Clarke closes her eyes against the mention of Mount Weather. She hates that people see that as a victory, as something good she did, like she didn’t steal the lives of 382 people, take the air straight from their lungs, burn them from the inside out. Like she didn’t commit genocide._

_“My brother was a prisoner there._ Heda _freed him and you destroyed the men that hurt him. You took away our biggest threat. We thank you,” Hope steps in, a sad understanding in her eyes._

_Clarke fidgets, but decides that these women clearly want to thank her, so she’ll let them._

_“You’re welcome.” Albe beams in response. Clarke finally collapses to her knees beside Lexa, reaching out and taking her cold hand within hers. She moves to rest her head against Lexa’s shoulder, uncaring of her audience._

_“You’re going to be okay,” she whispers, “you’re gonna be okay.” The women stay, despite the rather compromisingly intimate position Clarke has taken up with their Commander, and Murphy sits on the floor across the room, head pressed against the wall, his eyes shut, breathing heavy and even._

_She looks at Murphy in a new light now. She’d called him a friend to Titus before Lexa was shot, but she didn’t really mean it; knew Murphy looked uncomfortable by the words. She only considered him one of the Sky People, and she has a duty to protect them, even Murphy. But now….well, Murphy certainly didn’t have to stay. He could have cut and run. But he didn’t. And there’s something strange Clarke feels about him now, like there truly is another layer to him that she’s just uncovered. Or maybe he’s just changed, as they all have. Maybe the ground made him softer, instead of harder, like it did to Clarke, to Octavia, to everyone else. Maybe there’s something redeemable about him after all._

_She sits up after a few minutes, taking the tube out of Aden’s arm._

_“What are you doing?” He asks, voice laced with worry, glancing back at his Commander._

_“It’s okay, Aden,” she says, soothing her fingers over the puncture wound, “You need a break or you’ll pass out.” He relaxes, slumping into a chair, closing his eyes to mirror Murphy. Clarke takes a moment to observe Lexa. Her chest is barely rising; if you didn’t stare close enough it would look like it wasn’t. But there’s some color to her cheeks again, and Clarke feels like she can breathe again. She puts the tube back in the basket for later use, leaning forward again to lace her fingers with Lexa’s._

_“You care for_ Heda _?” Albe asks quietly, eyes taking in the scene before her. Clarke isn’t even sure how to answer, if she even wants to answer, if Lexa would want her to answer. But Clarke’s tired of lying, to the world, to herself, to Lexa. She doesn’t want to run from these feelings anymore. She doesn’t have the strength to try._

_“Yes,” she whispers in return, sweeping her eyes reverently over Lexa’s face, taking in every inch of her._

_Albe lets out a low chuckle._

_“What an act of wonder,” she replies, and Clarke is startled by the admiration in her voice._

_“_ Heda _deserves someone to care for her the way you clearly do. She has been good to the world. The world should be kind in return,” she smiles._

_Clarke feels tears in her eyes again and she squeezes Lexa’s hand in her own._

_“Yes, it should.” Whether or not it ever would be, well, perhaps only time would tell._

_Aden suddenly jumps from his chair._

_“Clarke,” he says, voice urgent and demanding. She turns to look worriedly at him._

_“_ Fleimkepa _will return for_ Heda’s _body soon, so my fellow_ natblidas _can begin the purification ritual. If we want to keep her safe we must go, far from here.” Clarke had nearly forgotten about the Conclave in all the commotion since Murphy had come back with the healers._

_Hope presses several bottles of medicine into Clarke’s hands, explaining exactly how each was to be used and when._

_“Murphy,” she calls, and he opens his eyes to stare at her._

_“What is it, boss?”_

_“Are you coming with me or not?” He shrugs, pulling himself to his feet._

_“Well I don’t have anything better to do, so yeah. I’ll help you out.” She smiles gratefully._

_“Thank you.”_

_“Whatever.” He’s still rude and sarcastic, but he’d tried to comfort her, helped her when she asked. She thinks she likes these new layers of him._

_“We need to build some sort of makeshift stretcher to carry her out of here on,” Clarke murmurs, “and we’ll need horses.”_

_“Not to be a downer here or anything, but how exactly to you plan to carry a half-dead girl on a stretcher through the woods with just a horse?” Murphy scoffs, raising his eyebrow up at her. Clarke runs her hands through her hair in exasperation. She clearly wasn’t thinking far enough ahead. She mentally kicks herself for the oversight._

_“My family owns a small wagon,” Ghany offers up, “I will give it to you, for_ Heda. _” There’s a reverence in her eyes, a pride, at being able to help Lexa in some small way. She forgets sometimes how much Lexa’s people love her. It warms her heart to know there are other people out there who won’t give up on her._

_“We will meet you four blocks east of here with extra supplies and our wagon. We will help you out of the city, but then we must return.” Clarke swallows against the lump in her throat, touched by their kindness._

_“I wouldn’t ask you to do anything more than that. You’ve already done more than enough.” They bow, and exit the room, hurriedly making their way to the lift. Clarke turns to Murphy and Aden._

_“I am coming with you,” Aden speaks before she has a chance to say anything._

_“Aden –” she tries, but he cuts her off._

_“If_ Heda _needs blood then I am the only one who can provide for her. Let me come.” She sighs._

_“Okay.”_

_They build a stretcher out of a board of wood they break off the bed, laying Lexa on top of it and covering her with furs, placing a pillow underneath her head._

_“Now we just have to figure out how to get her out of here without being seen,” Murphy scowls under his breath, “Easy peasy.” Clarke rolls her eyes._

_“We’ll figure something out.”_

_“Better do it fast before baldy gets back.”_

_“Not helping,” she scolds as Murphy smirks at her annoyance._

_The footsteps of several guards enter the room, and Clarke freezes up._

_“Shit,” Murphy says, and Clarke thinks that’s the only accurate statement there is to describe their predicament._

_But the guards don’t advance. Instead, they put down their weapons._

_“We are loyal to_ Heda. _We care for her,” says the man to Clarke’s far left, “We will help you save her life.”_

_And so their journey begins._

_Clarke and Murphy carry Lexa’s stretcher while Aden walks by her side, making sure she stays comfortable on the board. The guards ensure they’re not seen, sneaking them down the lift and through some tunnels Clarke never knew existed, until they march up into the streets. It’s nighttime, but it’s not quiet. People are still milling around; voices carry._

_“You must be careful,” the man says, staring down forlornly at Lexa’s prone form, “We will do as much as we can to delay notice of your absence. Keep her safe,_ Klark kom Skaikru _,” he warns, meeting her eyes in a fierce gaze of loyalty. Clarke swallows._

_“I won’t let anything happen to her.” He smiles, so small she almost misses it._

_“Go._ Ste yuj.”

“Mochof,” _She replies, and he bows his head to her before he and the others disappear back into the tunnels._

_“Here we go,” Murphy sighs as he hoists the end of Lexa’s stretcher, adjusting his grip._

_They move, weaving through streets, sticking to the shadows and alleyways as best as they can. They’re almost spotted a few times, but Aden draws a blanket up over Lexa’s face to shield her from view. It seems like it takes an eon to reach the healers. They’re speaking in hushed Trigedasleng, standing around a small, open topped cart that’s hitched to two horses._

_Ghany bows her head as they draw nearer._

_“There is a few days worth of food for you,” Albe gestures to the cart. Aden climbs up into the back of the cart to take the front of Lexa’s stretcher from Clarke’s hands, he and Murphy pushing until she was resting securely on the bottom. Aden sits by her head, sandy blonde hair falling into his eyes as he settles, straight backed and regal._ Like Lexa.

_There’s a small bench from where someone could control the horses, and Clarke moves to hop up. Murphy reaches out, his palm ghosting over her shoulder._

_“Let me,” he says, gesturing to Lexa in the back, eyes downcast, “You sit with her.” Clarke stares at him with a mixture of shock and appreciation. All she can do is tilt her chin in return in a way that reminds her all too much of Lexa._

_She clambers up into the back alongside Aden while Murphy hoists himself to take the reins._

_“Good luck,” Albe says, “We wish you safe passage.” Clarke reaches her hand out over the edge of the cart to take Albe’s forearm into her own._

_“Thank you. All of you. May we meet again,” she says. They smile in return, unfamiliar with her Traveler’s Blessing, but seeming to take it in kind._

_And with that, they’re off, cart creaking against the streets as they make their way towards the gates of Polis and into the unknown beyond._

_“Where to, Clarke?” Murphy asks, turning his head slightly to face her._

_Clarke doesn’t know where else to go, that’s why she says it. Not because she really wants to go back there. She doesn’t have good memories there – just Finn’s death and the pain of fighting for survival on the ground, the feeling of being trapped with nowhere else to go, the reminder that she murdered everyone in Mount Weather for just 44 of her hundred._

_“Home, I guess.”_

_Murphy laughs hollowly, “Where’s that?”_

_Clarke lets his words sink in, momentarily despondent before she realizes something. She thinks she just might know where home is, and it’s not Arkadia, or the dropship, or Polis, or even the Ark. It’s currently inches away from her, barely breathing, trapped under furs and blankets and sheets._

_It’s Lexa._

_“Just hold on for me,” she whispers as she leans down to press her lips to Lexa’s hairline, “Just hold on tight and don’t let go.”_

Lexa stares at her, eyes wide in shock, mouth going slightly slack.

“Clarke.”

“I’m here,” she breathes, fingers curling a little more desperately around Lexa’s own.

Lexa doesn’t know how to feel. Everything seems to be spinning out of control. She is no longer _Heda_ and she is running from her own people, away from her city. That’s what frightens her, curls into the pit of her stomach like a snake, chokes her lungs beneath its constricting weight.

She is no longer _Heda_. But no _Heda_ has ever lived without the spirit of the Commander inside of them. It has never been done. The Commander’s spirit rests in its chosen _natblida_ until their death, upon which it moves to choose its successor. She should not be alive. She should be dead. And she doesn’t know what this means, she doesn’t know what will happen to her, or to whoever is chosen to replace her, despite the very real fact that she is still breathing.

“I should not be alive,” She says, shaking her head. Clarke looks stunned into silence.

Finally she speaks, and Lexa wants to lose herself in the ocean of her eyes, filled with swirling emotion.

“You know,” her voice cracks, “You still haven’t learned that when someone saves your life, it’s customary to say ‘thank you.’”

Lexa remembers those same words, barked at her in some underground room, hiding from _pauna_ , her shoulder dislocated. She remembers Clarke saying _I need you_ , remembers the way she couldn’t help but admire the strength and resilience and sheer determination in this woman’s very soul, realizing that there was something incredibly special about _Klark_ _kom Skaikru;_ she was a force of nature that pulled Lexa straight into her orbit. Love was weakness, but Lexa remembers that night, watching over Clarke sleep in the woods, realizing what she was feeling. Realizing the stuttering of her heart and the twisting of her stomach and the way she was just so utterly, inexplicably _enthralled_ by Clarke meant that she might be falling for her, that she felt something far beyond mutual respect and a shared endgame for her. That she wanted to spend countless nights like the one they’d just shared, opening up, swapping stories, learning about each other. She remembers that night as the night she’d realized there was no turning back from this. Something about Clarke had thawed the walls she’d tried so desperately to build around her heart, and for whatever reason, she just didn’t have the strength to put them back up, not against Clarke. (Never against Clarke).

Lexa smiles faintly, feeling a twinge of pain in her abdomen, “No Commander has ever lived without the spirit. We did not think it possible.” Clarke blinks in understanding.

“I know you think that you should be dead, for whatever stupid noble reason you have, some duty to your people, but I don’t give a shit.” Lexa opens her mouth in shock, but she can’t help the amusement that twinkles in her eyes.

“I would do anything to save you. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Anything not to lose you. I don’t care,” Clarke finishes, tears beginning to fall down her cheeks. Lexa falls silent, contemplating.

“Thank you,” she settles on. Clarke’s gaze shoots up to meet hers in wonder. (Lexa’s meager breath is stolen away by the look in those eyes). 

Clarke leans forward, face inching closer and Lexa blinks rapidly against the onslaught, feels her stomach turning in on itself. Clarke’s forehead settles awkwardly against her own, and Lexa’s heart breathes a sigh of contentment. Her eyes flutter shut against the press of Clarke’s skin, the warmth of her breath ghosting across her lips.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she says, shaky and uncertain.

“I’m right here,” Lexa whispers, voice raspy with the emotion she feels rumbling in her chest, threatening to tear a hole through her skin.

Clarke laughs, wet and happy.

“Yes, you are,” she replies, and Lexa doesn’t ever want this moment to end.

Clarke makes no effort to move, and Lexa doesn’t make her. They sit, foreheads pressed against each other, breathing deep and easy, synching up to the erratic beating of their hearts, the overwhelming sense of comfort invading their senses, and Lexa feels swept away by the love she feels winding around her; acceptance, relief, care, _need_. She feels tears in her eyes and she tries to sniff them away.

Clarke opens her eyes, pulls back slightly.

“You’re crying.”

“So it would seem,” Lexa chuckles throatily in return. Clarke’s hand comes up to her cheek, brushing against her lashes. Then she leans down, pressing a soft kiss underneath her eyelid, taking the tears with her. Lexa chokes on the emotion filling her entire being.

“Don’t,” she says, and then she’s kissing her, lips soft and reverent, a kaleidoscope of gentleness and passion all rolled into one, like this might be the last time their lips ever touch, like Clarke’s spent a year in The Dead Zone and she’s finally found water. Like there’s hope for a tomorrow. 

(Lexa swears she sees stars).

They break apart only for air, panting. Lexa wheezes, suddenly aware of the pain in her stomach.

Clarke moves back to her chair at Lexa’s side, entwining their hands again.

“Whatever happens,” Clarke murmurs, “because of the spirit and you still being alive? We’ll figure it out together.” Lexa nods against the pain, feels Clarke’s grip reassuringly squeeze her fingers.

“You should rest,” she continues, “We’ve still got a long way to go, and you’re still very weak.” Lexa nods again, as thoroughly as she can.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” she whispers, and Lexa smiles.

“I look forward to it.”

She closes her eyes to the twinkling smile of the woman she loves, and Lexa finds it hard to remember any time in the last few years that she felt this damn _happy_.

~~

Clarke sits by Lexa’s side until her ragged breathing evens out, tracing her eyes over the form of the woman who had changed so much of her life in the short time they’ve known each other. She heaves a sigh of relief. She’d been worried she might never wake up again.

Clarke squeezes Lexa’s fingers before she stands, making her way out of the small abandoned hut they’d found nestled in the middle of the woods, about a quarter of the way to Arkadia. It’s getting lighter now, the sun beginning to peek out over the horizon, splashing across the sky in vibrant reds and oranges, and Clarke never fails to be astounded by its beauty. The artist in her aches for colors, so she can fully capture the essence of it all on paper. (She remembers Lexa sitting with her on her balcony, watching her sketch, offering to find her all the art supplies she wanted or needed, and Clarke remembers her stomach swooping as she met those dazzling green eyes, swooning over the gesture, but not quite ready to admit it to herself).  

“Whatcha doin’ out here, Princess? Shouldn’t you be with your girlfriend?” Murphy drawls. Clarke looks up to find him leaning against a tree trunk, fiddling with a stray twig between his fingers. (She ignores the sting the nickname brings her).

“Lexa’s asleep,” she replies simply. She pauses for a minute, taking in the lush greenness of the trees around her.

“Where’s Aden?” She asks. Murphy nods behind her.

“He’s walking around the perimeter again. I told him he didn’t have to but he insisted. Kid’s stubborn as hell I’ll give him that.” Clarke smiles. Another one of the many ways that Aden reminds her of Lexa.

Murphy pushes himself up off the ground, dusting off his pants as he stands.

“When do you want to leave?”

“Soon,” she replies, “The sooner we can get Lexa adequate medical care the better. I don’t want her to be out here any longer than she needs to be.” He nods.

“I’ll start loading up the wagon if you wanna find the kid.” She nods.

“Okay.” Clarke turns, making her way back around the side of the hut, leaves crunching beneath the soles of her boots. It doesn’t take her long to find Aden. He’s crouched low to the ground, sitting back on his haunches, staring wordlessly out amongst the trees. Clarke walks up slowly, moving to lower herself next to him.

They sit in silence for a few moments, enjoying the way the radioactivity of the trees glistens against the sun’s early morning rays. Moments like this remind Clarke that maybe someday her life can be like this. She can wake up every morning next to Lexa and find serenity in the tangle of their limbs and the breach of the sun over the horizon as it stretches across Polis. She wants that, desperately so. She wants to wake up and actually _enjoy_ herself; live. She wants to wake up and not be mired in blood and death and impossible choices. She wants a future worth surviving for.

But today is not that day.

“I remember when my _nomon_ would sing me songs about the trees, when I was young, before I came to be trained by _Heda_ in Polis,” Aden says, and his voice is wistful; pained, “That was before she died. _Heda_ and the other _natblidas_ are the only family I have left anymore,” he finishes quietly. He turns to look up at her, eyes wide and imploring.

“I don’t want _Heda_ to die. I love her.” Clarke reaches out, running her hand over his shoulder as soothingly as she can muster.

“I know,” she returns. (The words _so do I_ die on her lips), “She’s going to be alright. I have to believe that. You should too.”  Aden nods, jutting his chin up in that way she’s seen Lexa do a thousand times.

“I’m glad _Heda_ found you,” he says, sincerity lacing his words as gazes up at her. Clarke can’t help the swell of her heart in response.

“I’m glad I found her too,” Clarke says, feeling her heart beat staccato against her rib cage.  

“We should go,” Aden states after a moment of stretching silence, pulling himself to his feet.

Clarke expresses her agreement, following him back to the front of the hut, where Murphy stands with the cart, running his hands down the side of one of the horse’s heads. He wordlessly follows her into the hut as Aden clambers up into his usual spot in the back.

Murphy blows out a few of the candles before coming over to grab the foot end of Lexa’s stretcher.

“Ready?” He asks. She nods and they lift on the count of three, practiced in their maneuvers by now, weaving out into the open air. Once Lexa is settled on the back of the cart, Clarke returns into the hut to retrieve their packs and Albe’s medicine.

“Do you want me to steer first?” Clarke questions as she stows away their supplies in the corner across from Aden. Murphy shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter to me.”  She had been up for a majority of the night, watching over Lexa, but she can tell Murphy’s exhausted, both mentally and physically, despite having slept more than her. So she’ll let him off the hook for now.

“I’ll go first.” He nods as he climbs into the back, resting his head against Clarke’s back once she settles with the reins. 

They travel in silence for longer than Clarke can keep track of.

She focuses on the smell of the horses and the wind in her hair, on the weight of leather between her palms and the press of Murphy’s head against the small of her back, on the creaking sounds of wood as the cart rolls along the uneven ground below, the glinting of sunlight through the breaks in the trees, the sound of soft snores and ragged breathing. None of them were particularly good measures for the passage of time, but Clarke supposes she lost that ability once Finn tainted the memory of her father’s watch.

It was hard to blame Finn – he had been doing what he thought was right, after all. She can’t fault him for it. He certainly didn’t mean anything malicious by offering her the watch back. But after that day, after he’d returned the watch back to her while they were hiding from the acid fog, she couldn’t bear to look at it -  knowing that its existence was the reason Finn had gone into that Grounder village in the first place, the reason why eighteen innocent people were dead. So she stowed it in the bottom of a bag and hid that bag in her designated room on the Ark.

She didn’t spend much time there anyway. It felt suffocating. And she was busy trying to arrange and plan for a war and late nights were sort of part of the deal. She’d spent countless hours poring over drawings and maps, talking out frustrations with the Grounder Commander long into the night. Sometimes war talk lapsed into something else, shared stories about hardships and tentative talk about their respective cultures (Clarke’s pretty sure one of those nights, hunched against a table together amidst the waning, flickering orange light of the candles that cast a strange shimmering glow across the fabric of the tent, illuminating their silhouettes, is when she’d started to fall for Lexa).

Nights she did have to herself she often spent with the Grounders anyway. She looks back and thinks she was (and still is) just as fascinated with them as Octavia (but maybe that was more of a fascination for a _particular_ Grounder than anything else, and Clarke can’t believe how hard she was crushing on Lexa before she even realized it – it hadn’t been until the kiss that her feelings finally caught up with her. Lexa’s lips were warm and soft and hesitant against her own, and her mind had screamed _oh. Oh. This is where you’re at. Now kiss her back, stupid_ ).   

She often spent nights away from the stifling, mechanical whirring of the Ark. She’d lived in a prison in space for seventeen years of her life, and she wasn’t going to waste any spare moments she had out in the fresh air trapped back under fluorescent lights. She was sure her mother wouldn’t have liked it, but she’d never really told her. She’d just snuck out, breathing in the air and making her way to the Grounder camp, Miller’s dad usually on patrol, letting her out through the gates because he wanted his son back, and sometimes she snuck out through Raven’s gate, after asking Wick to show her how to turn the electricity off. She spent those nights mostly with Lexa, sometimes talking, sometimes not, and she thinks that those nights were something she should have treasured more. Happiness is fleeting, after all.

(She hopes they’ll have an infinite amount of more nights just like those, taking walks deep into the woods, shaking off Lexa’s guards and grinning breathless like teenaged fools, sitting in a war tent and talking about shared pain and heavy burdens, Clarke looking at Lexa and not realizing the weight of the twisting in her heart, what exactly that floating heaviness deep in her chest meant. She wants to watch the stars with Lexa and kiss her in the moonlight and remind her that love is _never_ weakness).

And then, after the betrayal, after Mount Weather, she didn’t step foot inside Camp Jaha – Arkadia. (She keeps forgetting it’s Arkadia now). She couldn’t bring herself to go back there and so off into the woods she went, sometimes spending time with Niylah at the trading post, but usually alone. And after that, Polis. Back to Lexa, and as far as she knows, her room is still the same as when she left it nearly four months ago, and her father’s watch is still ticking in a corner somewhere underneath a discarded bag of old clothes too dirty and ripped to be wearable anymore.

She knows that’s where they’re headed, but she can’t help the sense of foreboding that holds itself around her, tight and unyielding. She knows they won’t welcome her with open arms. She’s just as much a pariah as Murphy is. She’s a Grounder now: she looks like one, cares for one…even abandoned her own people. Lexa and Aden won’t be welcomed at all, and she just has to hope that they won’t shoot them on sight. She hopes she can find a way to appeal to Pike, and if she’s lucky, her mother and Kane will be nearby to help her do the convincing. She’s not sure if she could convince Bellamy, not after their last encounter and certainly not from the hostility he seems to ooze over Lexa. She knows a lot of people harbor a great deal of hatred towards her (Jasper) but she hopes they can find a way to reconcile; all of them. No matter what, they’re still her people. She’ll look out for them even if they don’t want her to.  

She sighs, stretching her shoulders and cracking her neck, careful not to move too much lest she disturb Murphy’s position against her back.

Suddenly Aden’s head pops up next to her thigh, and he’s tapping her softly.

“I’m hungry,” he says, “There’s a village a few miles to the west where we could get something to eat.” Clarke nods her assent, pulling on the reins to bring the horses to a standstill.

Murphy jerks awake the moment they stop. He flies up to his knees, his eyes slightly wild, looking more than ready to defend himself against attack.

“It’s okay,” she reaches out, putting a tentative hand on his shoulder, “We just stopped.” Murphy visibly relaxes before shoving her hand off, glowering slightly as he moves away.

“He is clearly _Skaikru_ ,” Aden remarks as he hops down from the back of the cart, careful not to disturb Lexa, “And you are the mighty _Wanheda_. You will be noticed. I will go myself and bring something in return for you. You watch over _Heda_.”

Clarke worries her bottom lip between her teeth.

“I don’t like you going alone.” Aden smiles before standing up straight, clasping his hands behind his back to mimic Lexa.

“I will be alright. It should not take me long. I will be back shortly. It is not a long walk.” Murphy grunts in approval, turning to his side. Clarke sighs.

“Hurry back.” Aden nods, before he disappears into the trees.

Clarke throws her legs over the back of the bench and slides down to sit by Lexa’s head. She reaches out, running her fingers through the stringy tresses of her dark hair.

“You’re really into her, huh?” Murphy says, eagle eyes taking them in. Clarke feels a blush in her cheeks and chooses not to respond to that. Unfortunately, she thinks he takes her silence as the answer he was looking for.

Murphy grins slightly before turning away, leaning his head against the side of the cart, closing his eyes again.

True to his word, Aden returns within the half hour, carrying a tin of meat in his hands and a smile on his young face. They eat in silence before they hear the rustling in the trees behind them. Murphy tenses. Clarke instinctively moves to shield Lexa’s body.

“Shit!” Murphy hisses, ducking his head below the side of the cart, “What do we do?”

“Don’t act like that,” Clarke hisses in return as Aden pulls a blanket fully over Lexa’s form.

A few Grounders come into view, skull masks covering their faces, war paint on their eyes. Clarke can’t tell who they are; she thinks they’re _Trikru_ but she can’t be sure.

“ _Chon yu bilaik?”_ One of the Grounders asks, eyes sweeping over them. Clarke can see the distrust in his eyes.

She tries to think quick.

(She was always good on her feet; Wells always said so. She was always able to get out of a sticky situation – sneaking somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be with Wells, sneaking somewhere after hours, sneaking out of someone’s room after a one night stand – she was always good at coming up with believable stories under pressure). 

“ _Ai laik Niyah kom Trikru,”_ Clarke says, and hopes Niylah doesn’t mind her borrowing her name, “ _This is –”_ She gestures at Murphy, who supplies her with a name for himself, although she winces at the awful English accent to his words.

“ _Otan kom Trikru,”_ he parrots back, but he doesn’t look _Trikru_ at all and his words are harsh. He doesn’t know the language, not as much as Clarke does.

“ _Ai laik Aden_ ,” their last companion adds, a smile on his face in an attempt to ease the tension between the two groups. Clarke tries to keep the panic from her eyes.

“ _What are you doing out here?”_

_“We’re just trying to get home,”_ Clarke responds, letting the Trigedasleng wash over her. Lexa mostly spoke to her in English; she was slightly out of practice, “ _We spent a week in Polis.”_  

The Grounders eye each other nervously, shifting on their feet. Clarke holds her breath.

“ _Okay,”_ they say, evidently accepting Clarke’s half-truth, “ _Safe travels.”_ Clarke lets out a sigh of relief as they continue on their way, traipsing soundlessly back into the brush.

“Fuck that was close,” Murphy whistles, relaxing back to the floor of the cart.

“We need to keep moving,” Clarke says as Aden pulls the cover down from Lexa’s face, and Clarke feels her heart seize up at the twisted look of pain crossing her slumbering face, “We can’t afford to get caught with the Commander in the back of our cart, especially not once word gets out that she’s supposed to be dead.”

“So let’s get a move on, Princess,” Murphy drawls, hopping up to take the horses’ reins. Clarke rolls her eyes but lets him, settling herself next to Lexa, taking her hand softly between her own.

“How much longer?” Aden asks, concern in his voice as he directs her free hand to feel Lexa’s forehead, which is burning hot against her skin.

Clarke lurches forward with the jolt of the cart as Murphy guides them back onto the road.

She shakes her head, looking out into the distance beyond, at the shimmering of the sun and the stillness of the air. Lexa’s breathing is ragged and heavy and it cuts into Clarke’s heart, breaks her open and scares her senseless.

“Too long,” she whispers in response, eyes glazing over with tears.

“We’ll get there,” she says to Lexa in particular, even though she knows she can’t really hear her, “Just keep fighting for me.”

She presses a kiss to Lexa’s cheek; squeezes her hand and threads their fingers together.

She turns her gaze to the blue-green horizon, and hopes for a future. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Clarke wakes when her head falls off her shoulder and connects rather loudly with the side of the moving cart.

It’s dark now, and Murphy is whistling something she can’t make out. Lexa is still breathing raggedly, and Aden is curled up by her side, sandy blonde hair falling into his eyes as he sleeps.

Clarke stretches, rubbing the slight welt on her head, wincing in pain.

“How long was I asleep?” Murphy turns slightly to face her.

“A while,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. Clarke blinks sleep out of her eyes, pulling herself to sit upwards as she takes in their surroundings.

“We should make camp,” she says, “It’s late.” Murphy grunts.

“I really just want to get there. I’m sick of this starting and stopping,” he groans out, rolling his eyes. Clarke bristles, suddenly defensive.

“You don’t have to be here,” she hisses, jabbing her finger into his side, “You’re free to go. I don’t need you. I don’t particularly care what happens to you, so if this is inconvenient for you, you don’t have to stay.” Murphy’s eyes narrow, lips upturned in a sneer.

“Well, well, look at that, the Princess shows her claws.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” she grits through her teeth. Memories of Finn flood her mind – his sweet smile, the desperate feel of his hands roaming her body as they fucked in the bunker, overcome with emotion; the sound of his laugh, the cheekiness of his smirk, running into his arms in sheer relief at being alive. But then, the darker memories – hearing the gunshots, walking into a massacre, his breathless voice and relieved expression; _I found you_. And then, those last words, strained against her ear as he accepts his fate: _Thanks, Princess_.

Murphy chuckles low in his throat, “Touched a nerve, huh? Well tough shit, Princess. You do need me. If you want your psycho girlfriend to live, you need the extra person. You’d drive yourself into the dirt trying to do this yourself. Not that I care, obviously.”

He smirks at the way she bares her teeth at the insult to Lexa.

“Fuck you,” she growls, seeing red, pushing at his shoulders, and pulling at the reins to bring them to a stop. She shoves him hard off of the top of the cart, the commotion jerking Aden awake who stares bewilderingly at the scene unfolding before him.

Murphy barely lands on his feet, stumbling to keep his balance.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, advancing on her as she jumps down to the ground to join him.

“Just go!” Clarke yells in return, tears in her eyes even as her rage overtakes her, “If you don’t like the way I do things, you’re free to fuck off.” Now it’s his turn to shove her, and he does, hard, slamming her against the side of the cart. She pushes his hands from her shoulders, kneeing him in the groin. He doubles over, clutching his crotch as he hurls expletives at her.

“Go!” She shouts, giving him one last shove before she turns away.

He scrambles to his feet, jumping in front of her to head her off.

“Listen up, Princess,” he smirks when she growls again at the nickname, “You need me and you know it. So suck it up.”

“I don’t need you,” she denies, shaking her head vigorously, as if that will somehow make her statement truer. She knows he’s right, but she doesn’t particularly want to acknowledge it. She’s angry, and Murphy is one of the last people she wants to be stuck with while trying to save someone she loves. It’s easier to pretend she doesn’t need someone she actively dislikes.   

“Well, I’ve got nowhere else to go, so,” Murphy trails off, averting his eyes as his nostrils flare in discomfort, a sudden quiet overtaking them, “You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not, asshole.”

“You’re the asshole,” she quips in return, but her previous anger at him has dissipated. It’s suddenly become all too real to her that he is lonelier in this world than perhaps any other person she knows. Everyone has someone to lean on - everyone except Murphy. And suddenly her heart breaks a little for him.

 If she had told the Clarke Griffin of almost four months ago, huddled in a tent with Bellamy as they contemplated what to do with an enraged posse of teenagers with Murphy at their head, demanding a ten year old girl to pay, (not for Wells’ murder, but for Murphy’s hanging), that she would find pity and sympathy for him…that Clarke Griffin would have scoffed at the idea.

But the Clarke Griffin she is now understands layers. She understands that people are not always what they appear to be and the line between good and evil isn’t a line at all: it’s a blur. It’s something so hard to differentiate that it’s almost nonexistent. She knows now that people can change - both for the better _and_ the worst - and that sometimes the answers you want aren’t the answers you get. She knows loss and pain and death and forgiveness and everything in between. She knows that nothing is easy down here on the ground. And she knows you can’t go it alone.

Alone is draining. Alone is painful. Alone is so incredibly _hard_. She had learned too much during her self-imposed exile, of what it’s like to have the loneliness and the guilt and the frustration drive you to the brink of insanity. She knows what it’s like to have yourself mutated into something almost unrecognizable - in the wilderness, separated from all human contact, alone with just your thoughts for company. She knows that the burdens of choices made and the brutality of Earth are that much easier to bear when there’s someone standing next to you, offering support and understanding; offering to share those burdens with you and show you a little bit of happiness. Show you a brighter future.

Clarke’s been lucky. She’s found that someone in Finn, in Bellamy, in Lexa.

Finn showed her happiness. He showed her a glimpse of what life could have been like had everything not gone careening off track. If Raven hadn’t fallen from the sky and the Grounders declared war and everything gone to shit. He had showed her love, gave her the briefest glimmer of hope when he set her mind and body ablaze with the promise of something greater.

Bellamy gave her someone to carry the burden of leadership with. He gave her support and loyalty; a sort of friend who stuck by her side and learned right along with her how to make hard choices. He had been a steady presence she could turn to towards the end of those early dropship days, when it was just the two of them leading their discordant band of delinquents headfirst into a war they had no chance of winning. He had been the one to attempt to shoulder some of her leadership burdens; to make the weight on her shoulders a little less heavy, and she’d done the same for him.

And then there was Lexa. _Lexa._

Lexa gave her all of that and more. Lexa was her equal in both loss and burden, the only one who truly understood all that she had been through, who offered her wisdom and compassion and understanding and never asked for anything else in return. Lexa taught her how to be a better leader. Lexa taught her how to lead with her head (and Clarke likes to think she taught Lexa a little bit of how to lead you’re your heart). The world they each carried on their souls weighed just a little bit lighter with the other there beside them. Lexa gave her judgment free support, and Clarke will always be forever grateful for that. And maybe even more importantly, Lexa gave her _love_. She gave her hope, desire, and a deep, scorching kind of selfless love that knocked her off of her feet and showed her all that she never thought she’d see. Lexa wormed her way into Clarke’s heart with her half-smiles and her wisdom and her aggravating life lessons; with her humor and her raspy chuckle and the warmth of her green eyes. And once she was there, firmly entrenched, there was no going back. (Clarke couldn’t even fathom trying anymore).  

Murphy, though…Murphy, as far as Clarke knows, has no one. No one to watch his back and no one to stand by him and share in both the horrors and triumphs of life. She feels sorry for him. He’s hardly a good person, but then again, how many of them really are? After all, _she_ is _Wanheda_.

“Whatever you say, Princess,” he grunts, shooting her an aggravated eye roll as Aden surveys them, head cocked to the side.

Clarke runs her fingers through her hair, sighing as Murphy wanders off into the trees. She turns back to the cart, exhaustion set deep in her bones.

“Sorry,” she addresses Aden. He shrugs.

“It is alright.” Clarke climbs back up into the cart, sitting down across from Aden, reaching her hand out to touch Lexa’s skin, which is still burning up.

“Maybe Murphy’s right,” she murmurs, “Maybe we shouldn’t stop anymore. We need to get her a real doctor.” Aden merely watches her, his eyes sharp, glinting in the moonlight through the darkness around them.

“We need rest,” Aden says softly, and he looks just as drained as Clarke feels. (She thinks she probably looks worse).

“Murphy!” She calls out; wanting to make sure he’ll keep watch first so she and Aden can sleep.

She huffs in annoyance when she gets no response, “Murphy!” She finally hears the rustle of leaves and brush crunching underfoot as Murphy comes into view.

“I’m here, alright, stop yelling.” Clarke rolls her eyes.

“Will you take first watch?” Murphy shrugs, his eyes downcast.

“Whatever, boss.”

Clarke waits until she’s sure he’s going to stay before adjusting herself to lie beside Lexa, pillowing her arm underneath her head, letting her weary eyes trace over tanned, fevered, sickly skin. Aden lies down on Lexa’s other side, shimming his body as close to her as he can physically get, closing his eyes as he lays a hand on her shoulder; a tether to her reality.

She doesn’t think she ever truly understood the bond the Nightbloods had with Lexa until this very moment. She recalls Aden’s words from the morning, _she’s the only family I have left_ , and it suddenly hits home just exactly how true that is.

She knows being a Nightblood is in itself a lonely existence. Ripped away from their family and their village, thrust into the capitol with nothing and no one, trained for a responsibility none of them ever asked for. Knowing that all the people they grew up with, that they cared for, they would have to kill. She thinks of Lexa, thinks of what she went through when the spirit chose her - poor Lexa, with the weight of the world much too heavy on her teenaged shoulders, her heart much too big for the coldness of war. (She had called Lexa heartless, once. How incredibly wrong she was).

She knows that for Lexa’s Nightbloods, she is all they have. She is their teacher, their friend, and in some cases, probably a mother figure. Clarke is hit with a wave of regret for leaving the rest of them in Polis to face the music of the Conclave. She almost wants to turn back, rescue them from their certain gruesome fate. But she can’t. Lexa is her priority now. She has to take care of her. Nothing else matters.

So Clarke closes her eyes against the onslaught of sadness, and drifts into fitful sleep.

~~

She wakes up to someone furiously shaking her shoulders.

She brushes sleep out of her eyes, blinking them open, focusing in on wild brown eyes and a tangled mop of jet black hair, spinning in curls around the base of a neck.

_Bellamy_.

She jerks fully awake, pulling herself upright.

“Bellamy?! What are you doing here?” She hisses, looking into his worn out face, bruised and bloody. His expression softens when he meets her eyes.

“I’m here for you, Clarke,” he says, reaching out a hand to bush against her cheek. She closes her eyes and sinks into the touch for a moment, into the comfort of connection, lets his fingers trace the scars on her skin, before she sets herself firmly back in the present.

“How did you find me? What’s going on back at Arkadia? Is Pike still in charge? Did you finally come to your senses?” She asks, rapid fire, needing as many answers as she can possibly get but barely possessing the ability to stop questioning so he can actually have a moment to speak.

His smile is strained, haunted.

“I came for you, Clarke,” he says again, and Clarke frowns against his hold on her cheek.

“Bellamy, what’s going on? Talk to me,” she pleads as his hand falls away and his gaze leaves her eyes, focusing on something in the distance behind her instead.

“Look at them, Clarke,” he whispers, stepping closer, into her space, his breath hot and acrid against her skin. His eyes bore into hers, lifeless and hurting, blood dripping from cuts on his cheekbones. She doesn’t understand.

“Look at what you did to them.”

Suddenly she’s whirled around, and she’s face to face with piles and piles of dead bodies, stacked all on top of each other, spreading between the trees, bloody and burnt and decomposing, the smell of rotting flesh invading her senses.

Bellamy comes to stand next to her, his face twisted into a sickening smile. He points to a swell of bodies to the right, bullet holes shredded through their clothes, the tissues of their organs, their bones cracked and twisted.

“Those are the ones I killed,” he says, menace in his voice, “Well, I may have pulled the trigger, but you killed them. All of them. You left, and look what happened. You’re responsible for this. For everything awful that’s ever happened to us down here. You bear the weight of that.”

She feels the tears as they ghost down her cheeks, shaking her head in horror.

“No…no, please…” she begs, “I can’t..” she chokes on her own words as the smell of the corpses overwhelms her, crawls into her nose and slithers down her throat, makes her gag with the weight of all of it.

Finn appears then, placing a hand on her shoulder as he comes to rest beside her.

“You murdered me too, you know,” he whispers into her ear.

“Oh, God,” she moans out, ripping herself away from the both of them, running into the field of corpses stretching out in front of her. She can’t escape; all she can do is scream and scream and scream until her throat runs raw.

There are children at her feet now, the bones of dead children, their faces red and burnt, suffocated by toxic air.

“You killed all of them too,” Jasper says, looking up from where he’s sitting cross legged amongst the bodies, “How does it feel to be a mass murderer? Does it feel good to know how many people’s lives you destroyed, mine included?” She shakes her head, tries to block out his voice.

“Please, Jasper, stop, please, I did it to save you, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry’s not good enough,” he spits at her, “Sorry doesn’t bring back the dead.”

She looks over his shoulder to find Maya, head tilted to the side, looking at her with dead, unmoving eyes. She doesn’t speak, but Clarke can hear her anyway. The accusatory words, the reminder that she is the one who killed her, the one who slaughtered more than three hundred people to save forty-four of her own.

Clarke sobs and it tears through her throat. The nightmare never ends, there’s always more dead, there’s always more blame; there’s always something she did wrong, people she killed. Lives she destroyed.

She turns, desperate to be away from the blackness of Jasper’s eyes, but she bumps into someone else in her haste to get away.

_Lexa_.

There’s blood seeping out of her stomach and her eyes are wide and filled with shock, looking at Clarke, staring right into her soul.

“You can’t save anyone,” Lexa says, black blood curling around her palms. She falls to her knees, and Clarke screams.

“No!” She shouts, propelling herself forward, catching Lexa’s body as she crumples.

“I saved you,” she whispers into long tresses of chestnut hair, as Lexa bleeds out on top of her, green eyes draining of life. Clarke clutches her tighter, closer, tears streaming down her face now with reckless abandon.

“Lexa, please! Don’t leave me, please,” she howls into the night, knowing Lexa’s death would break her. If Lexa died, half of her would die too. She could never come back from that. She knows that, suddenly and all too clearly in that moment. Losing Lexa would destroy her.

“You are destruction personified,” a deep voice says, washing over her. She turns her eyes upwards from the bloody river of Lexa’s abdomen, finding Wells’ harsh expression staring down at her.

“You kill everything and everyone you love,” he says, and Clarke watches as the outline of her father’s shadow comes into view, stopping next to Wells.

“ _Wanheda,_ ” Jake says, and the one word sounds like a gunshot, tearing into her flesh, shattering her bones upon contact.    

 She collapses, Lexa’s dead weight still against her, the feeling of bodies closing in on all sides, surrounding her, suffocating her –

“Clarke!” There’s shaking, all around. She tries to close her eyes to it, block it out.

“Clarke!” Again, closer this time, more distinct.

“Clarke!”

She jerks awake, eyes wet with tears.

Murphy stands over her, a rare tint of concern in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks, removing his hands from where he’d been clutching her shoulders.

She brushes him off, “Yeah. Just a bad dream.” He looks at her skeptically.

“Sounded like a little more than that.”

“Let it go, Murphy,” she snaps. He backs away, hands in the air.

“Alright, I get it, Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head in disdain.

Clarke closes her hand into a fist against the side of the cart, grounding herself. She hates those dreams. The dreams where the dead haunt her and remind her of all the terrible things she’s done. Remind her of the kind of person she truly is. She wishes she could say she didn’t have those dreams nearly as much as she did those first few weeks alone in the woods, but that would be a lie. They haven’t gone away. They merely ebb and flow in intensity.

She turns around, remembering the addition of Lexa in her nightmare, finding her still unconscious to the world, breathing raggedly. Clarke nearly sighs in relief.

“Lexa,” she murmurs, reaching a hand out to stroke an errant hair back behind her ear, taking a deep breath as the panic in her chest slowly fades.

Lexa is here. Lexa is breathing. Lexa is alive. She may be responsible for all of those other deaths, but not Lexa’s. No, this one, she saves.    

“ _Heda_ used to chase away the terrors when I was younger,” Aden says, the softness of his voice jarring Clarke from her thoughts. She turns fully to meet his eyes, watching him over Lexa’s body.

“Yeah?” Clarke asks, watching his lips twitch upwards into a smile.

“ _Sha._ She would remind me that I am strong, that I needed to be brave. That the terrors were not real; they could not hurt me. And sometimes she would listen to the very bad ones, and she would tell me tales of the old Commanders until I could fall asleep again,” he looks down at her, fondly.

Clarke smiles at his memories, and finds herself falling even more irrevocably in love with Lexa. The woman with steely eyes and coiled muscles, ready to tear out your throat for suggesting something contrary to her beliefs; who was yet filled with so much love, so much compassion, despite being groomed to kill and forget emotion. She could have hardened her heart beyond belief. She could have ended up truly heartless. But she didn’t. She didn’t let the world take her kindness, and Clarke’s heart swells with the knowledge, tears welling in her eyes again as she glances down at Lexa’s unconscious form. There is something so uniquely special about Lexa, and Clarke’s pulled towards her like a magnet; unstoppable. (She doesn’t think she’d ever want to resist something that felt so _right_ ).

“I am sure she could do the same for you,” he adds, unprecedented childlike innocence shining from his eyes as he fiddles with his fingers. It makes Clarke tear up, overwhelmed with emotion for a boy who was forced to grow up faster than he should have and the Commander who made sure he kept some of that youth she never had. Her heart aches for every single person who has never known anything more than fighting to survive. The need for peace suddenly becomes all too apparent to her. The world needs it. _She_ needs it. Lexa needs it. She wants to look into Aden’s eyes and know that he doesn’t have to die.

“I’m sure she would,” Clarke nods in response, sighing as she breathes in deeply, centering herself again, images of Lexa’s strong arms circling around her, soothing her, lips against her hairline, whispering sweet nothings in her ear at the tail end of a nightmare flooding through her mind, a movie played out on the backs of her eyelids. She wants desperately to experience Lexa’s comfort; to feel the definition of her muscles underneath her fingertips as she holds Clarke with such fragile reverence, like she’d done when they’d made love.   

Clarke is hit with an overwhelming, immediate need to talk to Lexa; to see her smile, to look into her eyes, to hear the lilting sound of her voice as her tongue trips over the end of Clarke’s name. She has to get to Arkadia. Murphy is right – no more stopping. Not until she is staring into her mother’s eyes and watching her take stock of Lexa’s wounds. 

Her body thrums with renewed energy, eager and determined. She bends down, kisses Lexa’s hairline for strength, and straightens her back.

“Murphy!” She calls. He turns at the sound of his name, finding her eyes in the darkness from his spot against a tree, a few feet beyond the front of their cart. He braces an arm against the tree, beginning to raise himself to his feet at the urgency in her voice, “Let’s go.”

He shoots her a sly smirk as he joins her in the cart, swinging his legs over the front, taking the horse’s reins in his hands. She nods to him, a motion of solidarity, and he returns it with a serious look in his eyes as he flicks the horse out onto the dirt path.

Clarke smiles as she bobs against the side of the cart, moving with against the roughness of the ground.

_Soon_.   

~~

It’s around midday when Clarke actively starts to recognize the landscape surrounding them. She remembers running through these exact trees months ago, Monty and Octavia and Finn hot on her heels as they tried to outrun the Grounders; as she, Finn, Bellamy, Wells, and Murphy searched for Jasper, as she tried to keep Charlotte safe from Murphy’s rage. It had been simpler then, before the Ark crashed down from above and Mount Weather took her and forty-seven others below the surface of the Earth. She misses her innocence; who she was before she killed so many people.

But she can’t go back. She can’t change what’s already been done. All she can do is move forward, make sure Lexa isn’t added to her body count, bring peace to her people so that no one else has to kill someone to survive.

“We’re getting close,” she speaks up, nodding over at Aden.

“You sure about all this, Clarke?” Murphy asks, glancing over his shoulder at Lexa, “From what I’ve heard it’s not exactly Unity Day over there at Arkadia.”

Clarke swallows heavily, “I know. But we don’t have any other choice. I need my mother’s help.”

That’s when a lightbulb flickers on in her brain, and a new plan clicks into place.

“Wait,” she says, and Murphy stops on command, “The dropship. We can take them to the dropship, and you and I can go back to Arkadia. I’ve snuck in before. I’m sure we can sneak my mom out.”

Murphy looks at her skeptically, “What about the blockade?”

“It’ll be okay,” Clarke nods, trying not to think about the fact that the Grounders may very well shoot them on sight - after all, those _are_ Lexa’s orders. She can only hope they wait until she can explain what’s going on.

“Whatever you say, Clarke,” Murphy says, shaking his head ruefully before spurring the horses onwards. Clarke knows they’ll reach the edges of the blockade before long, and the dropship won’t be too far beyond. And then, all that’s left is Arkadia. She prays that this works. (It has to). This is all she has left.

Clarke knows they’ve finally reached the blockade once she starts to hear shouting. There is rustling in the trees, the smell of burning fires, the clank of weapons and the sharp sound of Trigedasleng cutting through the air as feet pound into the dirt.

Once she makes eye contact with her first human being, she climbs over the edge of the cart, hands in the air, Aden following closely behind her for support as she advances towards the blockade.  

“ _Beja, do nou jomp op,”_ she calls out it Trigedasleng, “ _Oso kom in ogonzaun, kom Heda_ _Leksa!”_

Weapons are pointed straight at her, wary and trained on her chest and neck, bowstrings tightening and swords gripped tighter. They don’t shoot though, and Clarke thinks she can attribute that to the fact that she’s dressed like a Grounder from head to toe. They don’t object as she inches closer, only tightening their grips on their weapons, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

“Clarke?” She hears a voice call out as they near the ranks, Murphy trailing far behind now, walking next to the horses cautiously. 

Clarke slowly lowers her outstretched hands as Indra pushes her way through the ranks, hand resting on the sword that’s dangling from her hip, arm in a sling.

Indra narrows her eyes at her disapprovingly, “ _Okteivia_ said you refused to return to take care of your people.” Clarke nods, pursing her lips. She regrets not being able to tell Octavia that she’d meant to come back with her, but things had just spiraled out of control.

“I wanted to stay in Polis, yes, but Octavia didn’t know why I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay for Lexa,” she says, and she doesn’t care that she’s revealing their relationship to one of Lexa’s generals, to the people behind her who are attempting to appear as though they aren’t eavesdropping on the conversation. But Clarke’s beyond caring. She doesn’t care who knows. Lexa is all that matters to her right now. Lexa is the priority, and she doesn’t care if no one approves. She doesn’t _need_ anyone’s damn approval to love Lexa. She feels a strange sense of contentment settle in her chest at the thought. _She loves Lexa, she loves her and that’s all that matters. Love._

Indra furrows her brow, “Explain.”

Clarke looks her in the eye, trapping her hands together behind her back, straightening her spine, “I care deeply about your Commander, Indra. I was saying goodbye when Lexa was shot. That’s why I couldn’t meet Octavia. I was trying to save your Commander’s life.”

Indra’s mouth falls open in thinly veiled shock, and the ranks behind her begin to murmur in distress. There is a distinct wetness shining in Indra’ eyes as she asks, carefully, “Is _Heda…_?”

Clarke shakes her head, “She’s alive. I brought her here so my mother can help her. She can do what I can’t.” Indra blinks quietly, glancing over Clarke’s shoulder at Murphy, who has slowly closed the gap between them.

“Will you let us through, so I can save her?” Clarke asks, playing on Indra’s devotion for her _Heda_ to make her disregard Lexa’s previous orders. She hopes that devotion will be pushing Indra to do whatever it takes to save her. Just like Clarke.

Indra nods to Aden before approaching the cart softly, looking inside to find Lexa, pale and sleeping. Her breath hitches in her throat, and Clarke’s heart soars when Indra turns back towards her, giving her a curt nod, fury in her eyes.

“ _Teik Klark kom Skaikru gouthru! Heda gaf in sis au.”_

Clarke sighs in relief as the ranks clamber to make room. Some of them are openly weeping, and some fall to their knees in respect, murmuring to each other in hushed Trigedasleng. Clarke is once again struck by this devotion, this care. Lexa’s people do truly love her, not merely as their Commander, but as an individual. The tears in their eyes and the waver of their lips and the restlessness of their limbs speak volumes to Clarke about what they are feeling in this moment, the lengths they would go to protect her, how much they value her. She has never seen a leader who is given this amount of fierce, undying loyalty and love before. She’s really never seen people with a leader they sincerely believe in before, and it warms her heart. It reminds her of exactly how special Lexa kom Trikru is, not only to her, but to the entire _world_. It makes her even more determined to save her.

Murphy extends his hand to her as she turns back towards him, and she locks onto his forearm and uses one of the wheels as leverage to hoist herself back up into the cart. Aden slides around the back, taking his usual position of vigilance next to Lexa’s side, resting his hand on her shoulder.

Clarke gives Indra a grateful nod as they jerk forward, and people press up against the edges of the cart as they drive through to get a glimpse of their _Heda_.

Once they can no longer see the shapes of the Grounders that make up the blockade behind them, she allows herself to breathe. _This is going to work_.

Clarke nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears a choked, messy groan come from somewhere beside her. She flips instantly, whirling around to find Lexa blinking groggily, eyes nearly crusted shut with dried moisture, cheeks flushed with fever. Her hair is wild and unkempt, sticking with sweat in odd places across her forehead, her lips chapped from disuse. But Clarke smiles anyway, because even like this, Lexa is still the most beautiful thing she’s ever laid her eyes on.

(She always imagined Earth would be beautiful. How fitting that its leader is even more beautiful than any lake or forest or ocean or sunset that Clarke had ever dreamed of).

“Hey,” she says quietly, scooting closer to her, reaching out a hand to steady her shaking form.

Lexa turns her head ever so slightly to face her, lips splitting into that half-smile that makes Clarke’s knees weak.

“Hello, Clarke,” she rasps out, green eyes finding hers, and Clarke thinks she would give up anything just to stare into them for eternity.

Clarke runs her hand gently over Lexa’s forehead, brushing her sweaty hair away.

“Where are we?” She asks, eyes leaving Clarke’s to dart around her surroundings.

“Taking you somewhere safe,” Clarke responds, and she finds she can’t keep her hands off of Lexa, needing to feel her swallowing, see her breathing, watch her eyes move and her shoulders wobble.

“Clarke,” she says, tears in her eyes, like she wants to say something but she can’t quite find the energy to force the words out past her lips.

Clarke feels answering tears in her own eyes, shifting to lie down next to Lexa instead, just to be nearer. She pulls herself as close as she can get, resting her hips against the side of Lexa’s thighs, pillowing her arm behind her neck, resting her chin on the palm of her hand.

Lexa’s fingers twitch at her side, reaching out for Clarke’s. Clarke sighs in contentment once their fingers brush, intertwining. The grip is loose, but exactly what Lexa needed, if the way the crease between her brows soothes is any indication. Lexa’s long fingers wind around her own, thumb swiping lazily across her knuckles, and Clarke feels more at peace than she has at all over the last few days.

“Thank you, for everything,” Lexa croaks out, grimacing slightly in pain, looking as though she might fall asleep again at any moment.

“Shh,” Clarke shakes her head, “They’ll be time for all of that later. You should rest.” Lexa smiles again, and it makes Clarke’s chest hurt and her stomach flip.

Lexa’s eyes droop closed, that smile still gracing her lips, and Clarke leans forward, laying her head against Lexa’s chest, throwing an arm around her waist, her ear catching onto the soft thumping of Lexa’s heartbeat.

“ _Ai…”_ Lexa breathes out in Trigedasleng before she stops herself, but Clarke’s heart is already in her throat at the unfinished sentence. She thinks she knows what Lexa’s trying to say; it’s the same thing she had stopped herself from saying before they had sex, _(that’s why I –)_ but Clarke feels it too; the way it blooms within her chest and spreads all the way to the tips of her toes, fills her with this _warmth_ that makes her ache.

“Me too,” she whispers against Lexa’s collarbone. She doesn’t get a response, she doesn’t even know if Lexa’s heard her, but then, after more than a minute of silence, there’s a slight squeeze against her hand, and she knows Lexa understood. Clarke tips her head up slightly, only to find Lexa’s eyes screwed shut, dripping tears. The surge of affection Clarke feels is almost overwhelming.

She leans up and presses a kiss to Lexa’s cheek, nuzzling her nose against her skin before returning her head to Lexa’s chest. She doesn’t say anything, though. She knows (hopes) they’ll have more time, when she’s recovered and they are both in better states of mind to say those words. Even if Clarke knows she loves Lexa, it’s not the right time to say it – as much as she wants to, she’s not even sure she could. She’s not ready, not yet, but she hopes Lexa understands anyway. (Of course she will).  

As Lexa’s breathing begins to even out, signaling her descent into sleep, Clarke feels it pulling at her too. She doesn’t fight it, not this time. Instead, she curls closer to Lexa, and lets herself go, lulled into sleep by the beating of Lexa’s heart and the soft rise and fall of her breasts.

(She doesn’t have nightmares, for the first time in a long time).

~~

Clarke wakes to Aden’s hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently awake. She opens her eyes, blinking against the brightness of the afternoon sun beating down on them through the treetops.

“We have arrived,” he says simply. She extricates herself from Lexa and sits up; getting her first real look at the place she’d called home nearly four months ago, when it housed one hundred delinquents who fell from the sky.

The ground that had been charred when she gave the order to burn the Grounder army is beginning to grow back, a soft fuzz of grass coating the ground, the skeletons cleared away. Other than that, it looks almost exactly the way she remembers it.

Murphy offers her a hand as she climbs down.

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” He says, a pained, wistful sort of look in his eyes as he gazes up at the imposing shadow of the dropship.  

“Yeah,” she agrees, thinking of Finn.

“Let’s get her inside,” Murphy says after a moment of stillness, listening to the wind shifting through the trees. Clarke nods, wiping her tears as subtly as possible before turning around, watching as Murphy climbs back into the cart to take the head of Lexa’s stretcher. She reaches up to take hold of the end, nodding to Murphy before they count off to three, lifting at the last number.

Clarke grunts slightly against the weight of it, and Murphy carefully lowers himself to the ground with Aden’s help so as not to jostle Lexa too much.

Aden runs ahead of them to pull aside the sheet that’s still hanging as a makeshift door to the dropship. The minute their feet echo against the metallic floors, memories of being in this exact position with Finn come flooding back. Clarke closes her eyes against the onslaught.

“You okay?” Murphy asks softly. Clarke opens her eyes, shakes off the painful memories, and finds concern in Murphy’s. She smiles.

“I will be,” she nods. He averts his gaze, grunting in understanding.

“Let’s put her on the table,” Clarke says, gesturing towards the same table where she’d pulled the knife out of Finn’s chest all those months ago.  Once they set her stretcher down, they call over to Aden. The two of them lift up Lexa by the sheet underneath her body, their arms shaking with the effort of holding her up, while Aden quickly pulls the makeshift stretcher out from underneath her.

“Damn, she’s heavy,” Murphy whistles as he massages his biceps, wringing his hands as he falls against the edge of the table. Clarke lets out a soft chuckle before turning to Aden.

“Murphy and I are going to leave for Arkadia in a few minutes, okay? I need you to stay here and watch over Lexa. If anyone comes here that isn’t me or him don’t let them know you’re in here, okay?”

Aden straightens his back and gives her a somber nod.

“Of course.”

She takes him over to the door, shows him how to use the controls to lock himself inside in case anyone happens to wander by and gets too close for comfort.     

“We’ll be back as soon as we can, I promise,” she finishes, squeezing his shoulder softly. His eyes are wet with unshed tears as he looks back at his _Heda_.

“Please,” he says softly, “Be quick.”

“We will.” She turns and motions to Murphy who drags himself up from where he’s resting near Lexa, giving her ankle an encouraging pat on his way to Clarke’s side.

“Let’s do this,” she says and he grins.

“Can’t wait,” he responds, eyes smirking.

(There’s something almost… _calming_ about his sarcasm, and she thinks if she was paired with someone who actually gave a damn it might actually be worse. Her panic needs his shrugging aloofness, and no matter how strange it seems - the two of them together - it kind of works).

She takes a deep breath, centering herself, glancing back at Lexa one last time before she steps forward.

She doesn’t look back this time, concentrating instead on the way her feet feel as they hit the ground, the messy sounds of Murphy dragging his heels against the dirt behind her, the cool breeze on her face.

“It’ll be okay,” he says suddenly, long after they’ve left the dropship in the distance.

“I hope so,” she replies, clutching the straps of the backpack she’s carrying closer to her chest.

They don’t speak for the entire rest of the way to Arkadia, the only sounds stretching between them are their own sometimes labored breathing, the scuffing of their feet over leaves and twigs, the wind swaying their hair and the trees alike.

It isn’t long before they see the looming, hulking mass of the remnants of the Ark splitting the horizon, and Clarke is once again struck by how much it’s changed in the three months that she’s been gone. It looks like a real settlement now; a civilization, rising from the ashes of the ruined Earth. Clarke would be proud of it if it didn’t symbolize their greed, their need to conquer and destroy; hurting Lexa’s people for their own personal gain. This isn’t home anymore, it’s not a safe place; it just seems like a stain – like something grimy and unsettling that Clarke can’t wash off her skin no matter how hard she tries.

“Here we go,” Murphy mutters under his breath, and Clarke echoes his sentiment with a drawn out exhale of air.

Much like how they were greeted at the blockade, Clarke hears guns clicking the moment they’re within eyesight.

“Grounders!” She hears someone scream, and the amount of guns pointed at them increases tenfold with that one simple word. Murphy raises his hands over his head and Clarke follows suit.

“Put your damn guns down!” Murphy shouts, only to get frustrated when no one listens.

“We’re one of you!” He continues, gesticulating emphatically with his raised hands, “We’re Sky People, you dipshits! Clarke Griffin and John Murphy!”

The two guards on top of the gate look at each other skeptically. Clarke doesn’t recognize them, so they’re not her friends or people who came down on the Ark in those few weeks they spent trying to get her friends out of Mount Weather. They must be Pike’s people. It makes sense that they’ve never heard of either of them. Both she and Murphy have been gone for over three months; these people have no reason to know Murphy is one of the faceless kids they sent down to die, that Clarke was a leader – the one who led the charge into Mount Weather and subsequently destroyed everyone inside.

“We were part of the hundred!”

Someone turns from their post and shouts “Clarke Griffin” down from the watchtower, and the commotion only gets more intense as a result.

Clarke glances sideways at Murphy who shrugs his shoulders, raising his eyebrows.

The gates begin to open slowly, and Clarke can just barely make out the mass of faces waiting on the other side. She lowers her hands as the gates fully open, and starts to walk forward, matching her strides to Murphy’s.

Their pace is interrupted by five guards who come charging out, guns at the ready, pointed directly at them.

“What the hell –” Murphy starts, but he’s cut off by the barrel of the first guard’s gun connecting with his chin, knocking his teeth together and sending him tumbling to the ground.

He’s not unconscious because he’s groaning in pain, and Clarke makes a move to dart forward and help him, but two of the guards are already grabbing him by his arms, hauling him to his knees, and the first guard whacks him on the side of his head again, and this time Murphy slumps completely.

Clarke’s barely even aware that there are guards advancing on her as well, and more are spilling out through the open gate with guns in their hands to provide cover. She only registers the imminent danger to herself when she feels something hard connect with the back of her skull.

She cries out in pain as she falls to her knees, collapsing onto her side, rolling onto her back with the force of her momentum.  She can hear shouting all around her, but she can’t quite make out what’s being said, her brain filled with a murky haze, her vision blurring.

Another guard moves to stand over her, head bent over his rifle. She squints against the brightness of her surroundings, but she can see enough to know that the first guard is raising the barrel of his gun again to bash her unconscious, just like they’d done to Murphy. She’s too disoriented to fully grasp the panic rising in her chest, how this is going exactly _opposite_ to how she’d hoped, what she’d imagined; that Lexa is alone and defenseless and sick and she _needs_ Clarke, but instead she’s in the middle of being taken, what? Prisoner?

The second guard shifts into her line of sight now, lowering his weapon slightly, and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding as she recognizes him.

The last thing Clarke sees before she blacks out is Bellamy’s face, staring down at her over the end of his lowered rifle, mouth agape, his eyes a swirling mixture of pain, concern, and anger.

And then, nothing.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigedasleng:
> 
> Beja, do nou jomp op. Oso kom in ogonzaun, kom Heda Leksa! - (roughly) Please, don’t shoot. We come in peace, with Commander Lexa!
> 
> Teik Klark kom Skaikru gouthru! Heda gaf in sis au. - Allow Clarke of the Sky People through! The Commander needs help.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still really angry over 3x07 so here’s me trying to bring myself some peace of mind by rewriting it. 
> 
> While this is a general season 3 fic, it is at its heart a clexa fic. The focus will be on their relationship but also on an overarching plot. I’ve got most of the story arcs worked out, it’s just a matter of writing them all down and embellishing them into something coherent, so I’m shooting for an update every two to three weeks, but since finals are coming up just around the corner, that tentative schedule may be pushed back a bit until the summer because I’m not sure how often I’ll be able to find time to write. This is gonna be a long one, so I hope you’ll stick around for the ride with me :) 
> 
> you can also find me on tumblr @ scmeenshaw


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